Maybe
by PopcornChicken66
Summary: "But maybe I need somebody who is different from me; someone other than my usual company. Maybe I need Kenny McCormick." Slash. There are suggestive themes, but as far as I'm concerned, this is a T-rated story. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or its characters.

**Maybe**

By PopcornChicken66

_Ouch._

I should be used to it by now. Electrocution, burning to death, being shot and/or stabbed; I've been through them all. There's just something about hangovers… the sensitivity to light, the relentless pounding in my skull, the bile threatening to rise up my throat and past my lips…

I sit up, fighting a groan as my head spins, and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. My muscles are sore and my limbs feel heavy. I have no idea where I am, which is only natural since I have failed to open my eyes yet. It's so damn bright though. Sighing thickly, I drop my hands into my lap and peel my eyelids apart into slits.

My room? I close my eyes again and try to think back to last night. It turns out to be too much effort. Who says I need to get up right now, anyway? It's only… Sunday, right? Yeah, Sunday. Blood rushing uncomfortably in my ears, I flop back down onto my mattress…

Only not. There's something beneath my back, something solid and hard. I bolt back up, ignoring my head's protests, and peer over my shoulder. It's… an arm. I blink once, then again, before making the connection and locating the arm's owner.

What the fuck?

It's that Goth kid. The one with the red streak in his dyed black hair. My brain groggily recalls that he goes by Red, or at least that's what everyone calls him. He's still asleep, breathing softly through his mouth, which brings my attention to the small silver hoop piercing the right side of his bottom lip. Suddenly, I can remember flashes of what happened last night. I'd been at a concert with Craig for multiple bands, the majority of them falling under the genres of punk rock or alternative. It hadn't been hard to go around and seduce older women into buying us drinks.

At some point I must've run into Red, because now my brain skips over memories until we're back here (I also have no fucking clue what happened to Craig). I remember the heat, the intensity, the roughness… It was good, that much I know. It isn't the first time I've woken up in bed with a killer hangover next to someone, but it is the first time that it's somebody I have personal relations to. Not only does he go to my school, but he used to be somewhat close to my friend Stan. And… he's naked. Sweet.

Deciding that I'm not going to fall back asleep anytime soon with a full bladder, I stretch and plant my feet on the ground. I tug on last night's jeans and a scrunched up shirt lying on the floor. Then I pad over to my family's only bathroom across the hall and take a very relieving leak. As I'm scrubbing away the taste of tequila on my breath with my toothbrush, I hear a loud thump from my room. Presumably, Red fell off of my bed. Actually, it's less of a bed, and more of the new, firm but sturdy mattress I saved up to buy stacked on top of my old, useless field of springs. Curious, I spit in the sink and rinse quickly before rushing back to my room.

And there he is, face down on the cheap, moldy rug (somehow still asleep), with the sheets tangled around his legs. Damn, his ass is hot. Did I fuck that? Considering the lack of aftereffects in my lower backside, I doubt it was the other way around. Talk about a score, whether he was conscious of his drunken actions at the time or not. No matter how hard I try to think (which proves to be an effort since my thoughts are murky and clustered), I have no clue what his real name is. Shrugging it off, I nudge his side with my bare foot and call him by his nickname; "Hey. Red."

I keep nudging until he shifts and lets out a soft groan. He rolls onto his side and covers his face with his hands. I wish I had some aspirin to offer him; hell, I wish I had some aspirin for my fucking self, but I've never been motivated enough to actually go buy a bottle after a night of hard drinking. It takes Red awhile to pull himself together before he realizes that he's in an unfamiliar place. He shoots up into sitting position, and upon seeing me, covers his nakedness with my sheets. He just stares. "…'Sup?" I say, trying to break the tension. I don't think it works, because he ends up glaring. There are traces of eyeliner smudged underneath his eyes.

"What happened last night?" he croaks, and I notice how gentle his voice is, like he doesn't speak much.

I shrug. "We had sex, I guess."

He flicks his hair out of his eyes. "Well that much is obvious." He reaches for his pants and struggles to force them on while he's still on the ground, because Jesus Christ those things are tight. Once he succeeds, he stands, and I'm surprised by how short he is. For some reason, I expected him to be taller than me… Maybe because of the rumors I'd heard of him being held back a year, the only reason he's in my grade.

Red winces and shuffles around gingerly, searching for his shirt. Must've been a while since he last did it with a guy, at least on bottom. I notice something black near the foot of my bed and pick it up. It's his shirt all right; wordlessly I hold it out to him, and he grabs it without a thank you. Once it's over his head, he stares at me again.

"…McCormick?"

He's just now recognizing me?

"…Yeah?"

He stares for a bit longer before shaking his head in disbelief. "I slept with fucking McCormick of all people; go figure," he mutters. I don't know what he means by that, or whether or not he meant for me to hear it.

The more I watch him however, the more I remember.

I had always wanted to kiss someone with a lip ring, and it turned out feeling great. The cool metal felt foreign against my lips, and clanked against my teeth when I sucked on the flesh around it. It was fucking hot. And I guess Red's pretty fucking hot himself.

He had smelt like cigarettes and some strange cinnamon scent- almost like the cheap incenses in those fortune-telling booths, and he tasted like tobacco mixed with beer. I hadn't ever gotten with a Goth before; not really my style, I guess. But once I tried it, at least with Red, it proved to be out of this world.

"-better not end up having Syphilis."

I blink as I'm tugged out of my thoughts, and take a moment to process his words. "Wouldn't be the first time," I mutter, and then I add, "Did we not use a condom or something?"

"Not from what I remember."

I can't hold back a snort. "You just watch; I'll end up getting Syphilis from you, and by tonight I'll be dead."

"That's not how it works."

"I beg to differ."

"Besides; that's not possible anyway. I don't have Syphilis," Red says dismissively, flipping his hair as if to physically wave away the subject.

"I wonder how many times we've said Syphilis in the past two minutes."

"It's gotta be at least four."

I smirk, and in that moment, the barest hint of a curve materializes on his lips; then it's gone and he's brushing past me. "Help me find my shoes, would you?"

"They're over by the front door." I had seen them on my way to the bathroom, scattered in opposite directions and turned on their sides at arbitrary angles. Clearly they'd been kicked off without aim. "We should do this again sometime," I say, following him on his trek for his bright purple winklepickers. I have no clue why he wears them.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he replies, bending to retrieve one of his vibrant boots. I scowl, scooping up his other shoe and holding it protectively to my chest. "Why the fuck not?"

Red shrugs. "We're just different people. Can I have that back?"

I glance at the shoe I'm holding before hastily snatching his other out of his hand in a split decision. I suppress a grin, but from the scowl I'm receiving, I'm guessing that I'm not doing a very good job of it. "Tell you what; I'm going to keep your shoes so that you have to come back here."

Red crosses his arms. "Even if I did come back, who the hell says you could make me do anything with you?"

I wink. "Me."

He rolls his eyes. "Give 'em back."

"Nope."

His glare becomes harsher. "Oh yeah? What do you propose I wear home then?"

"My shoes," I answer simply, nodding to my beat-up Converse settled innocently on the welcome rug. He opens his mouth, but I beat him to the chase. "It's non-negotiable. Just do it, dude. I'll give your shoes back eventually."

Red mutters something under his breath about a conformist. Then he avoids my eyes and shrugs. "Whatever." He grabs my shoes and yanks them on his feet before opening the door and padding down the steps. I feel a little sorry that I can't offer him a ride home, but he seems as though he wouldn't accept it anyway. My sneakers, even though they're black, look out of place with his outfit. I laugh when I imagine how I myself will look in his ridiculous boots, and suddenly I'm looking forward to school tomorrow, even if it's only a microscopic amount.

* * *

I sit outside in the field at lunch, like usual. Henrietta's going on about some television show that she saw last night, arguing with Georgie about whether or not T.V. is conformist. I drone them out and watch intently across the field, where Kenny McCormick walks with his friends to a lunch table beneath the veranda. I can't remember whether or not they usually sit outside, but either way I'm given a spectacular view of how ridiculous Kenny looks in my shoes. I feel a slight bout of satisfaction from this, but it's cut short when I shift and catch sight of his ratty Converse so out of place on my feet.

A cigarette is waved in front of my face and I blink, reallocating my gaze to Evan. His half-lidded eyes look bored as always, but there's a spark of recognition in them. He understands me most, and I think he senses that something's off. I glance down at the other cigarette that I had already been smoking, and it's burned down to nearly a stub. Sighing, I drop the stick and snuff it out with McCormick's shoe and then take the one being offered to me. Evan lights it up for me, and I nod in appreciation, breathing in a lungful of comfort.

"Staring at someone, Dylan?"

I shrug and shift my attention once again to McCormick without answering. Evan leaves it alone. The sex Kenny and I had _was_ pretty phenomenal (he lives up to the rumors), but the guy's a total whore, and for all I know, a generous bundle of STDs. He's pretty attractive though, I'll give him that. I remember back when we went to elementary together, but I didn't see too much of him afterwards, so witnessing him without his hood on was a curveball for sure. Nobody could forget those eyes though; icy, speckled baby blues, so deep and endless like the ocean itself. I suppose without a way to communicate whenever he wears his hood up (at least, with people other than his three friends), those eyes ought to show emotion, truly bringing out the meaning of "gateways into the soul."

His hair's cute. I wouldn't normally use that adjective to describe anything, really, but nothing fits more perfectly. It's thin, blonde, shaggy, and disheveled, and the way it's cut short around the ears but grown to the bottom of his neck is very… him. Not that I in fact know him. Not in the slightest.

I could change that, I suppose.

The question is; do I _want_ to know Kenny? He's good-looking, sure, but just who exactly would I be sleeping with? From what I've seen, my guess would be that he's free-spirited. Easygoing. Casual. Comical. Bold. Prideful. Friendly. Smooth. Sly. Unafraid.

They all sound a little less… dark and depressing than who I am. Quiet. Brooding. Careless. Indifferent. Biased, maybe, and possibly a bit pretentious too. But maybe I need somebody who _is_ different from me; someone other than my usual company. Maybe if I start something with Kenny, I can open my eyes to different things, different views.

Maybe I need Kenny McCormick.

It's hard to accept that I _need_ anything, let alone anybody, but it's new and maybe I like it.

And thus, I'm thinking that I just might have to take McCormick up on his offer and swing by his place again sometime.

Maybe.

_~fin_

* * *

**A/N: I recently researched the true names of the Goth kids and discovered that Matt and Trey haven't actually given them official titles (yet). However, I think the names that fans came up with are fitting, so I used them in this story (i.e. Georgie, Evan, Dylan). I hope you enjoyed it, even though it was short. I'm thinking about continuing, but that's only a possibility, especially depending on what my readers think. The idea of such an open ending was supposed to correlate with the title; maybe Dylan decides that it's too risky to cross his boundaries of comfort. Maybe he does go to Kenny's, but they never develop further than fuck buddies and by the time they're out of high school, they'll never meet again. Or maybe, just maybe, the two of them develop into something more.**


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